


witcher femslash asks

by cassyl



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (sort of), Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/F, Face-Sitting, Female Ejaculation, Fisting, Frottage, Hook-Up, Jealousy, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Mind Reading, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgy, Overstimulation, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Possessive Behavior, Restraints, Roleplay, Scissoring, Sexual Coercion, Sexual Fantasy, Sharing a Bed, Teacher-Student Relationship, Threesome - F/F/F, Tribadism, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Fisting, Voyeurism, background geralt/jaskier, not current teacher/student, or attempted coercion using sex?, past Yennefer/Istredd, soft Dom Rita, to be clear it teacher/student is between a former teacher and former student
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28539687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassyl/pseuds/cassyl
Summary: Just what it says on the tin: miscellaneous WLW Witcher ficlets written in response to prompts on tumblr.
Relationships: Margarita Laux-Antille/Tissaia de Vries, Philippa Eilhart/Margarita Laux-Antille/Tissaia de Vries, Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 16
Kudos: 62





	1. Tissaia x Rita x Philippa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the anonymous prompt: "i'd love tissaia x rita x philippa to be honest! nothing in particular, i just need more of the three of them together! hopefully but not necessarily having sex sounds lovely, i'd be super interested in their banter!"

“Rita,” Tissaia calls, without looking up from the parchment in front of her, “have you seen my copy of volume two of _Ars Magica_?” Philippa is due to portal in soon, in order to discuss the chapter she submitted for the new book Tissaia and Rita are working on, and Tissaia wants to check a couple of her references before she arrives. She wouldn’t put it past Philippa to misconstrue Nina Fioravanti to her own ends, conniving as she is. 

“Did you try the stack at your elbow?” Rita asks from somewhere behind her.

Tissaia suppresses a sigh. Of course, it’s right there. Any fool could have seen it—and she ought to have remembered it was there. She pages through the book briskly, searching for the passage by Fioravanti she’s thinking of. 

Rita’s hand on her shoulder startles her, but only for a moment. Rita’s touch is gentle, rubbing small circles into her shoulder. Tissaia closes her eyes and forces herself to give in to this little kindness—one of many Rita gives so easily and Tissaia finds so difficult to accept.

“You’re not anxious about talking to Phil, are you?” Rita runs one hand soothingly down Tissaia’s arm in a way that should be infuriating, but is not.

“Certainly not,” Tissaia says, flicking to the next page. 

“Mm, yes, which is why you’re paging through that book like you want to rip it to shreds.” There is a smile in the younger sorceress’s voice, a warmth that Tissaia has never possessed, even before she styled herself as the sophisticated and severe rectoress of Aretuza.

Tissaia very carefully relaxes her grip on the pages in front of her. She doesn’t like being teased, any more than she cares to be coddled. “I am not the least bit nervous.”

“Well, you’re very tense for someone who’s perfectly at ease,” Rita replies, the laughter in her voice somehow capable of drawing Tissaia in, instead of pushing her away—a kind of charm that can’t be taught. She presses a kiss to Tissaia’s hair and adds, “Maybe I can help you relax.” 

Rita’s fingers trail the column of Tissaia’s neck, feather light, before dipping down below the high collar of her dress to brush against her clavicle. Tissaia shudders, leaning back against Rita where she stands behind her tall chair. She has to bite back a moan as Rita continues to caress her throat. There’s a reason she favors tall collars and tightly buttoned tops, and it’s not, as she knows her students speculate, because she’s some repressed old maid. The skin of her throat is so sensitive she was once brought to climax just by the expert application of lips and tongue to that delicate flesh. To go about her day unprotected is to court the inopportune sensuality of a passing touch or a stray breeze—a distraction she can seldom afford.

“Philippa will be here any minute,” Tissaia says.

Rita only slips her hand further into Tissaia’s clothing, cupping Tissaia’s breast through the closely fitted bodice of her dress. Rita’s lips take up her fingers’ place on Tissaia’s throat, and then Tissaia does moan in earnest. She feels her nipples peak and heat floods her at the pressure of Rita’s mouth.

“We haven’t time,” Tissaia tries again, weakly. 

“You’d best be quick then,” Rita murmurs against Tissaia’s pulse. 

The suggestion is irresistible. Tissaia rucks up her dress and petticoats, and slips a hand between her legs. She’s already wet and aching just from Rita’s teasing. Her fingers slip against her clit and she rubs herself hard, chasing her pleasure ruthlessly, a race to the finish with no one but herself to beat.

Rita hums her approval close against Tissaia’s throat and the vibration makes her gasp. “That’s it, touch yourself for me.”

They have both abandoned all attempts to soothe the tension in Tissaia’s wound-tight frame. Instead, they are both working, each in her own way, to wind her even tighter. Rita’s lips suck and graze at Tissaia’s throat, fingers twisting her nipple sharply so that Tissaia feels it in her cunt. Throwing her head back, Tissaia works her fingers faster, pressing roughly against her slick flesh, the fingers of her other hand clenched in the silk of her skirt. Her cunt is an aching knot, drawing tighter and tighter with every touch.

“This is just what you needed, isn’t it? I can see how badly you want it.” Rita bites softly on Tissaia’s neck, causing her mouth to fall open in a shock of pleasure. “Are you going to come for me?”

Tiassaia does, her climax pulling her in and then shaking her apart. Her thighs tremble and quake, her legs going loose as the tremor of her orgasm works its way through her. She slumps, boneless, against Rita, who is still lazily palming her breast. She is breathing so hard she barely registers the sound of the portal flaring into existence across the room. 

“Oh, dear,” Philippa drawls. “I seem to have interrupted something.”

Rita leans down and brushes a kiss against the shell of Tissaia’s ear. She doesn’t have to say anything for Tissaia to take her meaning—a reassurance, a question. Tissaia, relaxed by her orgasm and bolstered by the warmth of Rita at her back, gives a small nod in response.

“Actually, Phil,” Rita says, “we were just getting started—if you’d care to join us?”

Philippa’s golden-brown eyes sweep over the sight before her, and Tissaia is surprised not to see the cool mockery she’s come to expect from Redania’s foremost sorceress, but rather a look of barely concealed avarice. “If you insist.”

With a few quick steps, Philippa closes the distance between them and drops to the floor between Tissaia’s feet. She wastes no time in pushing Tissaia’s skirts even further up about her hips, running her palms up Tissaia’s stockinged thighs to spread her legs.

Even knowing what’s coming, the first touch of Philippa’s tongue is a shock, her cunt still shivering from her last orgasm. But Philippa is unrelenting, licking into her in a way that makes Tissaia’s legs jump. 

Behind her, Rita runs a soothing hand along her torso, gentling her like some wild creature. Tissaia needs that touch desperately, all of sudden, something certain to ground her against the fierce and almost too intense pleasure of Philippa’s mouth on her. Tipping her head back, she reaches up and draws Rita down into a kiss. Rita’s mouth is tender against hers, and Tissaia feels held and steadied in a way she would deny craving even under the greatest duress.

Philippa slips two fingers inside her, and begins to work them briskly. When she crooks her fingers and begins a juddering pace, Tissaia’s hips heave and she is dragged away from Rita’s lips by a yearning sob. She is past too sensitive, past anxious or tense or anything other than shuddering with want. Philippa’s fingers are rough and relentless inside her, while her tongue is soft and fleet on Tissaia’s clit, and the combination makes her thighs shake and her hips jerk up off the seat of her chair.

She is too breathless to ask for anything, but Rita knows what she needs—always knows, no matter that Tissaia refuses to say it. Rita leans down to hold her still, so that her golden waves tickle Tissaia’s neck, and Tissaia keens. One of Rita’s hands presses low on Tissaia’s belly, and the pressure is what breaks her, bringing the fierce rhythm of Philippa’s fingers into sharp relief.

Tissaia comes with a shout, her whole body arching as she floods her thighs, soaking Philippa’s face and her petticoats and the seat of her chair. Rita holds her as she shudders and shakes, her limbs horribly, beautifully beyond her control. It’s a long time before she stops trembling, the aftershocks of her orgasm continuing to make her twitch and shiver even as her breathing slows. 

Between her legs, she hears Philippa groan, and she becomes aware of the slick sound of flesh against flesh. Though she can’t see more than the top of Philippa’s head, Tissaia can imagine what she looks like, leaning her forehead against Tissaia’s thigh, one hand up beneath her skirts as she brings herself off impatiently. Wrung out as she is, it makes her cunt throb to think of Philippa so overcome with desire that she couldn’t wait a moment longer. Philippa comes with a loud huff of breath, and finally sits back from between Tissaia’s thighs. The sight of her dripping face is not one Tissaia will soon forget, and when Philippa’s tongue darts out to lick at her lips, Tissaia is seized with the desire to kiss the clear taste of her own come from Philippa’s face. Perhaps she will. They can make the time.


	2. Tissaia x Rita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the anonymous prompt: "honestly i'm a complete sucker for tissaia. could you write something about her and philippa or rita? i love possessive tissaia!"

Tissaia scans the crowd, searching amongst the banqueters for a glimpse of Rita’s golden waves. Beside her, a Redanian ambassador drones on about the intricacies of trade negotiations with Kovir, and Tissaia wishes fervently for another glass of Est Est, though no amount of wine will make this conversation any less tedious. Nevertheless, Tissaia nods and asks the right questions to keep the man talking. 

“They want to show us they don’t need us anymore,” he says with a supercilious smirk. “But, of course, we’re the ones keeping half of their industries in business, so who needs who in this arrangement, I ask you?” 

Who needs who, indeed, Tissaia thinks bitterly. The man’s daughter is in her second year at Aretuza, and if Tissaia wants him to continue giving to the school as generously as he has been, she needs him to believe that she is as impressed with him as he is himself. It’s a loathsome undertaking, but a necessary one.

“Indeed,” she says, and that’s all the encouragement the ambassador needs to keep talking. 

It’s the emerald green of Rita’s gown that finally catches Tissaia’s eye. She’s across the room, caught up in a conversation of her own—only Rita’s companion doesn’t seem to be nearly as dull as Tissaia’s is. As Tissaia watches, the woman Rita’s talking to—some minor noblewoman from Kaedwen—lays a hand on Rita’s bare arm, the invitation unequivocally clear, even from a distance. Rita smiles, her expression radiant, accepting the forward gesture as naturally as a goddess accepting tribute.

It goes on like this all evening. Tissaia grovels to one self-important patron after another, and every time she catches sight of Rita, she seems to be basking in attention from every corner. Tissaia watches the same tedious Redanian ambassador she was talking to earlier trip over himself to bring Rita caviar, returning only to find a visiting scholar from Ban Ard plying her with Erveluce. 

Tissaia hates their transparent flattery, and she despises how graciously Rita receives it, too. Damn her for making this look so easy, for doing effortlessly what Tissaia has never been able to manage. The Rectoress of Aretuza is infinitely practiced in the art of diplomacy, but she’s never been able to make anyone believe she liked them when she didn’t. Even genuine compliments don’t fall easily from her lips, to say nothing of false ones, and receiving such facile blandishments tends to annoy her when they ought to please her. On occasions like this, Rita shines, reflecting others’ praise back onto them as naturally as a mirror reflects light. Tissaia, on the other hand, considers it a victory when she can get through one of these events without razing the whole building to the ground. 

So perhaps it’s no surprise that Tissaia is in an ill humor by the time the last of the guests has departed and she is finally able to retire to her chambers. She is sick to death of pleasantries and platitudes, of playing the role of obsequious matron for fools who can’t comprehend even a fraction of her true power.

When the door to her room opens and Rita steps inside, Tissaia considers sending her away. They’ve never formally discussed their sleeping arrangements, but since they began this little scholarly project of theirs, Rita has spent more nights in Tissaia’s room than in her own. Generally, she doesn’t mind sharing her bed with the other sorceress. Tonight, Rita’s arrival feels like an invasion of the only space Tissaia has all to herself, her hard-won respite from the outside world. This is what she’s been craving all night—the two of them alone together, free from all their other odious obligations—and yet now that she has it, she’s hardly in the mood to enjoy it.

“I’m exhausted,” Rita says, shutting the door behind herself. “Isn’t it a wonder that in all the centuries mages have been practicing magic, no one has yet invented a spell that will stop your shoes from pinching after a night on your feet? You’d think some enterprising royal sorceress would’ve cracked it by now, but it’s more difficult than you might expect.” She toes off her shoes, leaving them by the door where Tissaia prefers them. “Maybe I’ll set it as an exercise to my fourth-year students, what do you think?”

Tissaia says nothing, watching Rita trail around her room, shedding her jewelry as she goes. With her bare feet and tousled curls, she looks like some sylph that wandered out of a woodland dream. Tissaia should send her away on principle. Nothing so lovely could withstand the withering atmosphere of Tissaia’s mood tonight.

When she comes to rest in front of Tissaia’s full-length mirror, Rita stretches luxuriously before glancing back over her shoulder. “Would you be a dear and come undo me?”

Tissaia obligingly goes to stand behind her and begins undoing the hooks at the back of Rita’s dress. “I suppose it must be tiring, to be admired by everyone in the room.”

Rita looks up and catches Tissaia’s eye in the glass. “What’s this, now?”

“Nothing,” Tissaia says drily, working one particularly intractable hook free from its eye. “Only I can hardly fathom how you endure my company, after the charming society you enjoyed tonight. Perhaps you should have gone home with that Baroness from Ard Carraigh.”

“Is this really how you want to end our evening?” Rita asks, her exasperation tinged with something like amusement. Even in her irritation, she is impossibly charming. “Haven’t we both had enough tedious conversations for one night?”

“Have you?” Tissaia smooths one hand up the bare skin of Rita’s back. “You seemed to be having quite a pleasant time, from what I saw.” 

Rita laughs lightly, the sound a mixture of derision and pity. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“Merely making an observation,” Tissaia says, and slides Rita’s dress down her shoulders so that it pools at her hips. Her nipples, exposed to the cool air of the room, tighten so perfectly Tissaia can’t resist the urge to reach up and cup one of Rita’s breasts in her palm. 

“Well, don’t be.” Rita draws Tissaia’s hand down, guiding it under the layers of her dress until they find the rough curls of her pubic hair. “I may be more adept at faking it than you are, but that doesn’t mean I like it any better.”

At Rita’s urging, Tissaia’s fingers slip into the warm crease between her legs to find her clit. Rita shivers and presses back against her. Over Rita’s shoulder, Tissaia watches their reflection hungrily, drinking in the way Rita’s pleasure flickers across her features.

“You of all people,” Rita says breathlessly, “should know that the face a woman presents to the world has little to do with what she really wants.” 

Rita’s hand presses Tissaia’s close as her fingers build a swift rhythm, and Tissaia moans at the heat of her, how wet she is already. She rocks her hips against Tissaia’s hand, pressing her back against Tissaia’s front in one long, sinuous line. 

“So spare me your sulking, and—” Rita’s words slide into a low groan, her thighs tightening around Tissaia’s hand as she comes. The motion is a surprise to them both, unbalancing them so that they list forward against the mirror. Tissaia only just manages to catch them with her free hand, even as Rita’s orgasm continue to shake them.

Before Tissaia has fully regained her balance, Rita turns so they’re facing one another, but when Tissaia leans in to kiss her, Rita pushes her away. “I’m not finished yet,” she says, and drives Tissaia back towards the bed, shoving her down onto the bed and heaving her skirts up around her hips.

Rita pauses just long enough to shuck off her crumpled gown before she climbs on top of her, and, oh, _this_ is what Tissaia’s wanted all night, only this, the weight of Rita’s body above her, holding her down and blotting out everything else around them. She runs her hands up Rita’s sides, only for Rita to push them back down onto the mattress.

“I said, _I’m not finished yet_.” 

The pressure of Rita’s hands around her wrists makes Tissaia quiver with a mixture of lust and fury. _How dare you_ , she wants to say, but also, _Yes_ , and, _Please_ —none of which Tissaia can bring herself to say, so she writhes in Rita’s hold.

“You’ve no right,” Rita continues, settling her weight on Tissaia’s leg so that her cunt presses against Tissaia's thigh, “to be jealous, especially considering that I do all of it for you—your school, your students, your vision for the future of magic on the Continent.” 

Tissaia moans, bucking up against the slick heat between Rita’s legs. Rita rides her, grinding her hips down against her flesh and it’s maddening—all the right pressure, none of it in the right place. The sight of Rita’s bare hips circling above her makes Tissaia throb with longing. She wants Rita’s attention on her, wants Rita to make her feel—anything, everything—but Rita ignores her in favor of her own pleasure. She whines, twisting her wrists in Rita’s grip, but Rita just presses her hands down harder and keeps on rocking herself against Tissaia’s thigh. When she comes a second time, Tissaia can feel her clench against her skin.

“Now,” Rita says, sitting back on her haunches and releasing her grip on Tissaia’s arms, “what were you saying?”

Tissaia shivers, chilled now that their bodies aren’t sealed together, and loathe to relinquish the weight of Rita’s body pressed against her. Above her, Rita’s serious demeanor breaks slightly and she smiles down at her. “My poor darling,” she says, running a soothing hand up the side of Tissaia’s thigh, “did you really have such a dreadful night?”

Tissaia turns her head on the pillow, unable to face the tenderness in Rita’s eyes. What Rita said before was true—Tissaia has no right to complain about the indignities that accompany the choices she has made, nor does she have any claim on Rita that could possibly justify her behavior towards the other sorceress. There’s no excuse, other than how deep her desire runs, like a low tide pulling at her all the time—but that’s not something she can say, either, not to a woman who is more colleague than lover, with whom she can talk for hours about obscure theoretical principles but never about something so simple as their sleeping arrangements, let alone what she really wants.

Rita finally seems to take pity on her, dipping down to kiss her. “I was missing you, too, you know.” She brushes light kisses along Tissaia’s cheeks, her jaw. “All I could think about tonight was how I couldn’t wait until it was just the two of us again.”

Tissaia closes her eyes against the words, has to, can’t listen anymore, but Rita keeps talking.

“While the Baroness was telling me about her lovely estate outside Ard Carraigh, for instance, I was wondering how long it would be till I could come back here and fuck you.”

A moan works its way out of Tissaia’s throat.

“Would you like that?” Rita asks. 

When Tissaia nods her head, she can feel Rita’s smile against the sensitive skin of her throat. Mercifully, Rita doesn’t make her say it aloud, just reaches down and slips two fingers into her. Tissaia’s hips rise to meet her.

“Is that what you wanted?” Rita asks.

Tissaia tosses her head against the pillows, but there’s no point pretending she isn’t desperate for what Rita’s giving her. It feels so good to lie beneath her, to be covered by her and fucked by her, and still Tissaia wants more.

“Tell me,” Rita says, slipping another finger into her aching cunt. 

What she wants is to be filled, to be utterly overwhelmed. But Tissaia’s breath is harsh in her throat, and she can’t find the words to ask. Instead, she snakes one hand down between her legs to grasp Rita’s wrist, thumbing at the flexed tendons there. 

The look Rita gives her is intense, knowing, as if she’s read Tissaia’s mind, only Tissaia knows she hasn’t. With a nod, Rita withdraws, but only to spread Tissaia’s legs wider and settle herself between them. With one hand braced on Tissaia’s thigh, Rita bows her head to press a slow kiss against her aching core. She whispers a quick spell to summon something slick and cool in the palm of her hand, and then she is working her slippery fingers into Tissaia once more.

This time, she doesn’t stop at three, or four. Slowly, ever so impossibly slowly, Rita folds her fingers up tight and works them all inside her. Already the sensation is almost more than Tissaia can bear, and she clutches the sheets to keep herself from coming apart. Rita’s hands are slender, but the width of her knuckles feels broad as the world as they breach her. When Rita’s hand slips the rest of the way inside her, Tissaia’s entire body shakes.

For a moment, Rita just rests there, letting Tissaia adjust to the sensation of being filled so completely. Tissaia can feel her cunt pulsing around Rita’s hand, and when she finally starts to move, she barely has to do anything at all to make Tissaia quake. Even the slightest motion rocks her, so intense she’s afraid she won’t be able to withstand it.

But Rita is there, in her, above her, all around her—leaning over her, her free hand a reassuring pressure along her thigh. Rita holds her, and Tissaia dares to reach down to touch her clit, her fingers a frantic counterpoint to Rita’s steady movements. What comes over her then is not the ordinary crest of her climax but a churning sea change that threatens to wipe her out completely. Her body heaves, Rita’s fist an anchor within her, the center of the known world. Tissaia is so undone she isn’t even aware of crying out until Rita swallows the sound with a kiss.

When, after a little while, Rita gently withdraws her hand, Tissaia can’t suppress the shudder that goes through her. It’s all she can do to drag Rita down onto her. Rita lies on top of her obligingly, a comforting weight, and doesn’t move away as Tissaia shakes and shakes. If she remembered how to cry, Tissaia thinks she might do it now, but instead she buries her face against Rita’s neck until the shocks subside.

“There now, you see?” Rita murmurs, combing her clean hand through Tissaia’s hair, which has come loose from its pins and lies tangled on the pillows. “Wasn’t that a much better end to our evening?”

Pressed close against the sweat-rich curve of Rita’s neck, Tissaia nods her assent.


	3. Yennefer x Tissaia - Modern AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the anonymous prompt: "Please, I beg of you, give us more Witcher lesbians?"

The witch is scrolling through Instagram, already bored with this house party. She has two more stops planned tonight—both of which can’t possibly be any worse than this sadsack get-together with its single paper skeleton taped to the wall and its dwindling assortment of craft beers—but she used to fuck the host so it would be rude to leave without making at least a half-hour appearance as a courtesy. 

He doesn’t seem to appreciate the favor, though. Her ex, a knight in plastic armor, has spending practically the whole time she’s been here talking to some knock-off cartoon prince. Which is, frankly, insulting, considering how spectacular her cleavage looks in this dress. Honestly, what’s the point of showing up to her ex’s party if she doesn’t get to bask in his longing glances from across the room? Not that she cares about him anymore. But she certainly didn’t come here to watch him blush while some floppy-haired flirt makes eyes at him.

The off-brand prince—or is he a figure skater, maybe?—takes control of the aux cord, and at least the music improves marginally after that. She sips from her paper cup of spiked hot apple cider and watches the host’s brothers—a goat and the big bad wolf—get into a shoving match over the finer points of home-brewing techniques. The witch heaves a heavy sigh. Sometimes it feels like she’s been alive for a hundred years, like everything that’s ever going to happen has already happened. 

Using her front camera, the witch checks her lipstick—still perfect, of course.

“I like your costume,” someone says. 

The witch glances up from her phone to see a woman in a high-necked teal gown assessing her with a look of keen interest on her foxlike face. It’s a beautifully-made dress—the witch takes a moment to appreciate the fine craftsmanship, and the way it accentuates the woman’s curves—but the intended reference is difficult to place.

“Evil faerie dominatrix?” the woman hazards, gesturing to the witch’s lace mask.

The witch rolls her eyes. Possibly the mask was a bit much. “A witch, obviously.”

The fox-faced woman’s lips curl into a cutting little smile. “Obviously.”

“And what are you supposed to be?” the witch counters in irritation. “Random Hogwarts Professor Number Three?”

“A sorceress, actually,” the other woman replies with an imperious sweep of her hand. “But I’m sure I could teach you a thing or two.”

Now it’s the witch’s turn to smile. Maybe this night is looking up, after all. “I _really_ doubt it.”

The sorceress arches an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

As it turns out, there are still things the witch has yet to learn. They barely make it inside the witch’s apartment before the sorceress is touching her in a way that makes her feel like bottled lightning. It isn’t long before the lightning breaks the bottle.

“Oh, fuck,” the witch moans, her legs weak and slipping out from under her. 

The sorceress wraps one arm around her and kisses her. She tastes like the waxen vanilla of the witch’s lipstick. “How does it feel to be proved wrong?” she asks, and the witch can feel the other woman’s smug smile against her lips.

It feels incredible, sweet as sugar and shivery as the chill night air, but she’s not about to tell the sorceress that. “That was only one,” she says, instead.

The sorceress makes a little interrogative noise against the corner of the witch’s mouth, where she’s busy sampling the flavor of her lips again.

“You said a thing or _two_ ,” she says, with mock annoyance. “I’m still waiting for my second lesson, professor.”

“That’s headmistress to you,” the sorceress corrects.

The witch snorts, but lets herself be walked backwards into her darkened bedroom and laid out on top of the coverlet. The air is cold on her bare legs as the sorceress lifts her skirts, and then the touch of her mouth is hot. The witch arches and aches under the sorceress’s tongue, and, after a while, makes the sorceress ache, herself.

Later, as they lie entangled and exhausted, too tired to pull the coverlet over their naked bodies, the witch watches passing shadows play across the ceiling. It’s still early. She can hear kids shouting to each other out on the street—probably in search of pumpkins to smash and houses to TP. Across town, those parties she’d planned to drop by are still in full swing. This isn’t remotely how she hoped the night would end, but she finds she doesn’t mind being surprised in the least.


	4. Yennefer x Tissaia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the prompt from the lovely [crushcandles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushcandles/pseuds/crushcandles):"re: Witcher femslash: would you consider some Tissaia/Yennefer? I am so into the difficult push and pull of their dynamic and always love to see more of it!"

As the light outside the windows wanes, Yennefer’s guests begin to arrive, but her mind wanders. She’s grown bored of these little gatherings, of using her considerable skills to help the landed gentry slake their secret lusts without shame. One can only orchestrate so many orgies before one tires of the spectacle, after all. 

And so Yennefer’s thoughts drift to the touch of a gloved hand on her shoulders, and the smell of damp stone and ozone welling up behind her, a scent that is for her inexorably bound both to fierce longing and implacable misery. It’s anger, of course, that causes her to linger on the memory—irritation at Tissaia’s intrusion, fury at her self-serving condescension. 

Around her, her guests begin to succumb to the aphrodisiac fog rolling through the room. How tedious their desires are, how small. Yennefer can’t understand how their petty little wants—to be fucked by two people at once, to be pushed down or punished or indulged—can fill them with such insurmountable shame that they must seek out magical assistance to lower their inhibitions. It’s inconceivable to her, because what she wants is so immense it’s a constant maelstrom inside her, and still she cannot bring herself to feel ashamed. 

Damn Tissaia for trying to make her feel like a cowed schoolgirl again. How dare she turn up here after all these years and presume to understand what Yennefer wants or needs. How dare she offer Yennefer _redemption_. As if Yennefer is the one who’s failed. As if Yennefer has anything to atone for.

The same sensation she felt when Tissaia touched her wells up inside her now, a current of heat that sears her right down to her core. It makes her want to tear at her clothes, strike out, scream so loud Tissaia can hear her all the way back at Aretuza. But Yennefer stays still. 

She has long experience schooling her emotions—Tissaia taught her that. And it’s Tissaia’s voice she hears whenever her anger flares up so fierce she wants to burn everything down, herself with it. _You weren’t taking control_ , Tissaia said to her once, _you were losing it_. Yennefer would like to show her a thing or two about control.

While her host goes off in search of refreshments for her, Yennefer amuses herself by imagining what might have happened if her meeting with Tissaia had gone another way. If, instead of enduring Tissaia’s patronizing warnings, she had pushed her back onto the bed and put that prim mouth to a better use. 

She can imagine Tissaia’s shock as Yennefer hiked up her skirts and climbed on top of her. Yennefer expects such wanton behavior would outrage Tissaia’s carefully constructed veneer of propriety and poise. But Yennefer can’t imagine she’d offer any real resistance. No, she can almost feel the way Tissaia’s breath would hitch, her sides heaving between Yennefer’s thighs, her lips parted to gasp for air.

It would be gratifying to watch her eyes widen as Yennefer inched up her body. She’d like to see that foxlike face disappear under the black pool of her skirts. How she would shiver at the first touch of Tissaia’s tongue. Yennefer clenches at the thought of the slick sounds Tissaia would make lapping at her, how her face would grow wet and slippery between Yennefer’s thighs. And Yennefer wouldn’t let up for a moment, so that Tissaia had no choice but to bury her face in Yennefer’s cunt.

In the midst of the great hall, Yennefer presses her thighs together, feeling her pulse hot between her legs. Yes, she would like to have the rectoress at her mercy. It would be infinitely more interesting than the tedious tableau playing out in front of her now. Just once, she wishes someone would come to her with a really unusual desire, a passion that might stand up to her own. She wonders if Tissaia could withstand her, or if she would disappoint her like all the others.

Somehow Yennefer doesn’t think the rectoress of Aretuza would be the type to beg. Much too proud for that, Tissaia de Vries. Nor would she let herself flag in her ministrations, even when the hot embrace of Yennefer’s thighs grew stifling and her head began to spin. By then, Yennefer would be close and she would rock her hips, fucking Tissaia’s face. And perhaps she would feel Tissaia writhing under her, desperate for her own pleasure but unrelenting, and that would be what set her thighs quaking—the knowledge that Tissaia was hers, that she would give her everything she had to give and Yennefer would take it all.

It is, Yennefer decides, an intriguing little daydream, certainly worth revisiting later in the privacy of her own room. Perhaps someday she’ll even test the theory. Before she can decide how the conditions for such an experiment might arise, there is the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and she looks up, expecting her refreshments.


	5. Yennefer x Tissaia, pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For crushcandles, who said of that last Yennefer/Tissaia ficlet, "I would read 10000000 words of this if you ever wrote it."

The problem is, once she’s let herself imagine overmastering Tissaia de Vries, the thought starts to take hold of Yennefer. She finds herself returning to it at the most inopportune moments. In consultation with a high-profile client, the image comes to her—Tissaia tied to that bed in Rinde, her limbs held taut. While preparing herbs for a volatile elixir, she pictures herself sinking her teeth into the sensitive flesh of Tissaia’s throat, and nearly spoils the whole batch. 

Before long, the mere thought of high color rising to Tissaia’s cheeks is enough to get Yennefer wet. The idea of it—Tissaia thrashing beneath her, helpless as Yennefer brings herself off—is difficult to resist. It begins to take the place of other favorite fantasies—a dream of Istredd on his knees, or the memory of riding the White Wolf in that collapsed house—until soon it’s the only thing she can think of when she fucks herself.

Yennefer is no fool. When she was an adept, plenty of the girls at Aretuza had crushes on the instructors. Yennefer understands that what they really wanted was approbation. And rhapsodizing about those glamorous, powerful women was a way to feel close to them, to feel you too could hold all the secrets of the world in the palm of your hand. Yennefer was never one of those simpering students who giggled and flushed whenever her beloved teacher passed her in the hall, but she knows what it is to crave the attention of one who has that sort power over you—especially when that attention is not forthcoming.

Perhaps that’s all this is now, too. Or perhaps Tissaia’s appearance in her bedroom in Rinde struck a fissure in the dam that has been holding back her anger at the rectoress for all these years, and now all her resentment is trying to get free any way it can. It could be as simple as that. Perhaps. 

But this little bit of make believe does light her up in ways that are entirely unexpected for someone as experienced and long-lived as Yennefer is. After all, she’s fucked women before, and the desire to take command of her lovers is certainly nothing new. Like most sorceresses, Yennefer knows her own appetites well, and she’s hardly ashamed of her desires. So why is it that this particular idea is so appealing all of a sudden? How is it that she can still be surprised—by this, of all things?

It’s a question she cannot answer, even as she find herself returning time and again to her favorite variation of the fantasy, one when she ties Tissaia’s arms with a magic elven rope. Yennefer relishes the thought of rutting against her that way—her hips splayed wide, one of her legs on Yennefer’s shoulder so she can grind against the slick heat of Tissaia’s cunt. She would like to look down on Tissaia below her, to revel in the roll of her hips and the frantic friction at the join of their bodies.

She doesn’t bother too much with the whys and wherefores, but in this particular daydream, Tissaia can’t come, while Yennefer can—and, oh, she does. She fucks herself against Tissaia ruthlessly while Tissaia writhes and sobs beneath her and when Yennefer’s brought herself off several times like that, each climax fiercer than the last, she reaches down with her free hand to work her clit roughly, and comes again, so hard they almost tumble apart. But what never fails to send Yennefer over the edge, as she lies in her bed, imagining these things she will never do, is the way she imagines Tissaia would look at her when Yennefer was sure she could bear it no longer. In her mind’s eye, Yennefer can see her, thoroughly fucked but still unsated, aching to come and completely at Yennefer’s mercy. She would look up at Yennefer, eyes wet with tears of desperation, and, her throat too parched to speak, she would mouth the word _more _. It’s that plea that makes the core of her seize up in a searing shock of pleasure. And that, of course, is what this daydream is really all about: not a schoolgirl crush, or an expression of anger as she first let herself believe, but the longing for submission freely and unequivocally given, unconditional and limitless passion. What she wants, more than anything, is to take her pleasure from Tissaia and take and take and still take more—an impossible feat, for the woman who wants everything. And yet, she wants it. She wants it. She wants.__


	6. Philippa x Tissaia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the anonymous prompt, "would you consider some Philippa/Tissaia for your witcher femslash prompts? Or even some Philippa/Tissaia/Yennefer?"

“For the last time,” Tissaia snaps, unable to contain her mounting annoyance, “Aretuza is not a training ground for one of your spy rings. Recruit all you want from the lecture halls of Oxenfurt and the laboratories of Ban Ard. My girls are here to study magic, not to waste their talents fighting for foolish kings.” 

Philippa leans back against one of the long couches in Tissaia’s office, taking in Tissaia’s irritation with the same bored indifference as if she were watching the clouds move across the sky outside the open window behind Tissaia’s head. “And yet you have no objection to sending _your girls_ off to serve in the courts of royal fools all over the Continent.” 

“You know very well that we place graduates where they will be of the greatest use to the Chapter,” Tissaia replies between clenched teeth. Why does Philippa always manage to bring out the worst in her? Why does she end every conversation with the urge to sweep everything off her desk and scream like a first-year adept in the middle of a tantrum? 

“Has anyone thought to mention that to Artorius Vigo, I wonder? Or Stregobor, perhaps?” Philippa drawls, a mocking smile playing at the corners of her lips. 

“Of course there are those who will strive to advance their own aims.” Tissaia can hear her voice rising, her temper slipping further out of her control. “But we must trust we are all ultimately united in serving the Brotherhood’s aims, or else there is no point in maintaining our alliance at all!”

Philippa gives her a pitying look, and Tissaia’s anger flares hotter still. “You’re so close to apprehending the problem, Tissaia, it’s almost a wonder that you’ve managed to miss it.”

Tissaia takes a deep breath, trying one last time to reign in her anger. “Our priority _must_ be what is in the best interest of magic, Philippa. Surely you can see that anything less is a distraction.”

“And you think magic is _not_ my priority?” Philippa asks. 

The infuriating woman—as if there could be any doubt when she and Dijkstra spend their days pulling the strings of Redania’s court like a pair of merry puppeteers. “If it is,” she retorts, “your dalliance with Dijkstra certainly does a good job of concealing the fact!” Tissaia regrets it as soon as she says it, but it’s too late to take it back. 

But far from being offended, Philippa seems amused. “Ah,” she says, smirk crossing her stern and lovely face, “now, I see, we’ve struck at the heart of the matter at last.”

Tissaia clenches her jaw, but says nothing. She should know better than to dig herself any deeper.

The smile on Philippa’s lips widens. It’s not a pleasant expression—Philippa is not in the habit of doing things to please others, which makes her beauty all the more fearsome to behold. “I wouldn’t have expected this of you, Tissaia, I must say.” She unfolds herself from her reclining position on the couch, planting her feet on the floor and leaning forward to study Tissaia with keen attention. “You, who always holds herself so high above the fray.”

“Better than debasing myself for men who are so obviously below me,” Tissaia says, unable to prevent herself from saying it.

“Yes,” Philippa says slowly, rising from the couch. “I suppose that’s true.” She walks slowly around the table, though Tissaia thinks it would be more correct to say she stalks towards her. “Dijkstra is a canny strategist, you must give him that, but in the end he’ll never truly be my equal. Still, he has his uses. Although . . .” She stops half a step away from Tissaia’s chair, and pauses, as if considering a philosophical question. “. . . in my experience, there isn’t much men can offer that women like us can’t manage on our own.”

Tissaia can feel the back of her chair cutting into her shoulders, she’s pressed against it so hard—as if Philippa were exerting some great pressure on her entire body. She feels rooted to the spot, struck silent by anticipation. 

“You can act as if you’re better than me because you don’t get those lovely hands of yours dirty,” Philippa says, the mocking smile in her voice almost too much to bear, “but I think you’d jump at the chance to take a risk you hadn’t cross-referenced in seven different sources first.”

With another one of her dangerous smiles, Philippa leans forward, bracing her hands on the back of Tissaia’s chair. The smell of her—something crisp and clear as the scent of cold night air—envelops Tissaia as she closes in, and Tissaia squeezes her thighs together. Philippa chuckles low in the back of her throat like Tissaia has just proved her point, and says, “You don’t lock yourself up in this tower because you’re above it all. You want it so badly you can’t trust what you would do if you had it.”

When she leans in to capture Tissaia’s mouth with her own, Tissaia’s back arches, and a moan works its way out from somewhere deep inside her. She feels dizzied just by the touch of Philippa’s lips, all her anger turning molten at her core.

“Admit it,” Philippa says between kisses. “Tell me what I want to hear—” She transfers her attention to Tissaia’s throat, and Tissaia’s thighs fall open by reflex, heat rushing through her. “—and I’ll give you everything you want.”

Tissaia throws back her head, panting hard. She reaches out to grasp a handful of Philippa’s glossy, dark hair, and pulls her back up to kiss her once more. She leans into the velvet pressure of Philippa’s lips and says, “No.”

Before Tissaia can blink, the air shifts between them and Philippa is gone. She breaths in the cool scent of the forest at night and listens to the owl’s wings beating their retreat behind her.


	7. Tissaia x Rita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the anonymous prompt: "I'd definitely love some more Tissaia/Rita... Sounds kinda basic, but if you are asking for prompts, what do you think about some good old "and there was only one bed" fic?"

“Well!” Rita drops heavily onto the edge of the bed with the air of someone who hasn’t been at her leisure for the better part of the day. “What a to do.”

Tissaia makes no reply, her thoughts on the days ahead. She sits at the dressing table and absently begins to unwind the dark coil of her hair. Strands of damp hair cling to her cheeks and throat, cloying like an unwelcome touch.

“Do you suppose Yennefer will ever forgive me?” With her humid blonde curls and her full cheeks still pink from the wine and the lingering heat of the baths, Rita looks utterly blameless, the sort of person one could forgive anything.

“Eventually.” Tissaia arranges her hairpins on the vanity, and picks up her comb, which is enchanted to dry her hair as she combs it. Tissaia could never abide sleeping with wet hair. As a girl she’d always despised waiting for her hair to dry after bathing. It had taught her patience, she supposed, but those long, chill hours had felt like a trap she could never quite escape from. Magic solved that problem for her, like so many others—though not all, never all.

Rita sinks back onto the mattress, and Tissaia grimaces, knowing the pillows will be damp from the sprawl of her wet hair. When she offered to share her lodgings at the Silver Heron, she didn’t anticipate how much Rita would make herself at home. Her various jars of cosmetics lie scattered across the vanity, her stockings draped over furniture, and she seems to prefer to lounge around the room half-undressed at the best of times, despite Tissaia’s disapproving comments.

“The girl has plenty of spirit, at least,” Rita muses, directing her thoughts to the canopy over the bed.

“Though perhaps less sense than she ought.” With nimble fingers, Tissaia works her hair into a long plait.

“Oh, don’t tell me you were never young and reckless.” Rita’s tone is teasing, but Tissaia is in no mood to jest. She’s tired, and worried, and she has a headache from Yennefer’s carrying on. 

“Certainly not,” she says, and it’s the truth. Young, perhaps—so long ago she could barely recall it—but reckless, never.

“Really?” In the mirror, Tissaia watches Rita sit up slightly to get a better look at her. Her robe has slipped to one side, exposing a soft thigh. “You never did something foolish for someone you loved?”

Tissaia averts her gaze, focusing on tidying the mess on the dressing table. “So just because you made a fool of yourself over Lars, you assume the rest of us lose our heads at the sight of a pretty face?”

Rita laughs—a warm sound, round with pleasure. Yes, she really is drunk, Tissaia thinks. There’s no other reason why she would be so charmed by Tissaia’s ill humor. “I refuse to believe it,” Rita says, her voice rich with amusement. “There’s no way you’ve never done something even slightly ill-advised in your entire life. I simply can’t credit it.”

Tissaia stands up abruptly and extinguishes the lights with the flick of a wrist. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be content with disappointment,” she says, more curtly than she intended. In the privacy of darkness, she removes her dress and stockings, folding them carefully atop her traveling trunk before crossing to the other side of the bed.

The cover of night is made imperfect by the moonlight shining in through the suite’s open windows, and Tissaia can make out Rita’s shape atop the covers—clearly enough to see that while Tissaia’s back was turned, Rita shed her robe and now lies naked on the bed. As Tissaia stands there, Rita arches her back in a slow, sinuous stretch.

With a heavy sigh, Tissaia climbs into bed and turns her back. Rita’s attention-seeking is nothing new, and Tissaia has endured more wanton provocation than this without allowing herself to be moved. Besides, Tissaia has bigger problems than Rita’s lascivious teasing to contend with. She cannot afford to allow herself to be distracted now.

“Oh, you really are cross tonight, aren’t you?”

Tissaia focuses on her breathing, wishing she’d had the foresight to take a sleeping tincture before getting into bed.

From behind her, there comes the rustle of fabric and Rita edges closer atop the covers. “Is this because I criticized you in front of Yennefer’s ward?”

Closing her eyes, Tissaia tries not to feel the warmth of Rita’s bare skin so close behind her. She’s radiating heat, and Tissaia resolutely does not imagine what it would feel like to have Rita her pressed flush against her back.

Rita, undeterred by her silence, slides one hand along Tissaia’s shoulder, in a gesture that is surely intended to be soothing but only makes Tissaia tense. “Is this because I said you were indecisive?”

“You’re drunk,” Tissaia snaps.

Rita’s hand rubs slow circles around the cap of Tissaia’s shoulder, setting her tingling at the touch. “So?”

“So,” Tissaia says fiercely, turning over to look Rita in the eye, “I won’t be another one of your bad decisions.” 

Rita’s eyes are wide in the dark. Turning to face her was a mistake, Tissaia realizes belatedly. She isn’t sure she has the strength to withstand that look of earnest, injured surprise, not when they’re mere inches apart.

“Is that all you think of me?” Rita’s voice is hardly more than a whisper. “Some frivolous novice, still sowing her wild oats?”

How can she explain? How can she tell Rita how much hangs in the balance now, without giving it all away? “I can’t do it,” she says weakly. 

Rita’s lip bends in a perfect, disappointed pout. “I wish you would.”

It’s easy to give in—one of the easiest things Tissaia has ever done. Rita’s cheeks are soft and round under her palms, and her lips are softer still. Her mouth opens so prettily against Tissaia’s, her tongue quick and seeking. The noises she makes as Tissaia kisses her, so terribly full of yearning, only make Tissaia want to draw more out of her.

Rita’s skin is impossibly smooth under her hands, and she responds so eagerly to Tissaia’s touch as she maps her throat, her waist, her full and perfect breasts. “Please,” Rita breathes against her lips.

Tissaia slides one thigh between Rita’s legs and Rita rocks against her. Tissaia can’t help but moan at the heat of her—every bit as intense as she imagined. Working her hips in a steady rhythm, Rita manages to insinuate one of her legs between Tissaia’s own. The pressure against her cunt is enough to make her shake. Even with the fabric of her shift between them, the sensation is almost too much to bear.

Desperate hands draw her closer, until they’re so tightly sealed together that even the slightest movement of one’s body wrings pleasure from the other. They writhe as one, their breathless gasps indistinguishable from one another. Rita’s hands on her backside crush her closer and closer, until, at last, her kisses go aimless and she comes in a fierce pulse against Tissaia’s thigh. Even panting and shivering, she keeps urging Tissaia against her, and when the tight inward flux of her pleasure crests, it shocks through her, throbbing hard between her legs and coursing along her limbs. 

The sob that rises up in her then is a surprise, and she has to bury her face in Rita’s neck to ride it out. Rita, still tangled up with her and breathing hard, pets her hair and utters soft, cooing noises that make Tissaia’s eyes burn hot.

“It’s all right,” Rita murmurs—just like she might to comfort one of her overwrought students.

The thought is absurd enough to take Tissaia out of herself a little—enough that she can steady the rhythm of her breathing and untangle her limbs from Rita’s.

“Don’t.” Rita twines an arm around Tissaia’s waist and draws her close again. She drops a kiss on Tissaia’s lips, and then another. “Stay like this a little longer.”

Tissaia knows it can’t last. It’s completely foolish, beyond ill-advised, and yet, despite herself, she stays.


	8. Tissaia x Rita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In response to the anonymous prompt: "Please please please please please give us more Tissaia/Rita or Tissaia/Rita/Philippa. I love the idea of Tissaia needing Rita’s gentle encouragement to let herself have sex or touch herself. But also Rita being a bit rougher and taking what she wants? My brain can’t handle!"

Tissaia is shaking—not only her trembling thighs and fluttering stomach, but her breath, which is shuddering so hard in her chest it is no longer within her control. Her entire body strains desperately for something that lies impossibly out of reach. She knows what is expected of her—can feel herself trying—but she can’t.

Across the room, Rita makes a soft, dissenting noise. “I think you can.”

Tissaia becomes aware of the gossamer light touch of Rita reading her thoughts—foolish of her not to have noticed it before, but it was lost amidst all the other sensations overwhelming her. The sheets, drenched in cooling sweat beneath her, the strands of damp hair clinging to her cheeks, the smell of her desire thick in the air. It’s so much to bear—too much.

“Do you want to stop?” The question is gentle, without judgment, but even so the suggestion still turns Tissaia’s stomach sour.

She drags her head to one side to take in the sight of Rita sitting demurely in the hard-backed armchair in the far corner of the room. Her posture is relaxed, her clothes perfectly arranged, not a single strand of her golden hair out of place. No one who looked at her would have any idea that she is the cause of Tissaia’s current state. Save for the faintest flush on her cheeks, there is no sign what she makes of the shivering mess Tissaia has become—what she would think if Tissaia gives up, what she might say if she doesn’t.

“It’s all right if you’ve had enough,” Rita says. 

Tissaia tosses her head against the pillows. She can’t. She can’t. Stopping is just as impossible as giving Rita what she wants. She can’t, but she must. 

“I know you can do it.” Rita’s voice is warm with approval. “You’re going to do it for me, aren’t you?”

Tissaia whines as she returns her fingers to her overstimulated clit. Her knees jerk together, her legs trying to close against the sensation—it’s too much, she can’t.

“Ah ah,” Rita says, sweetly warning, “I want to see you.” Tissaia forces her quivering thighs apart so that the aching core of her is bare to the world once more. She’s on display for Rita, every breath, every slip of her fingers, every twitch of her cunt for Rita’s benefit alone.

“That’s right.” Tissaia feels Rita brush up against her thoughts again, sleek as satin, and it makes Tissaia’s hips jerk, knowing she knows. “One more, for me.”

One more. That’s all Rita wants from her. Her first climax was easy, helped along by the searing heat of Rita’s gaze on her. The second was slower, building gradually but persistently, her cunt so wet and eager that it was only a matter of time before came again. When Rita had asked Tissaia to come for her a third time, she’d moaned uncertainly, but resolved to try. 

Now, she is despairing. Despite the raucous trembling of her frame, the touch of her fingers on her clit elicits only the most distant pleasure. Her flesh is tender to the touch, her fingers grown numb and clumsy. Even the slick between her legs has lost its brackish thickness, turning thin and almost sweet. And yet her body, that betrayer, heaves and shudders, her breath hectic in her open mouth. 

This must be what it feels like to be possessed. Her body overcome by impulses beyond her control, her own will overmastered by Rita’s desire, she is trapped, borne away by something bigger than herself. Tissaia hates this filthy, writhing thing she has become, hates even more that she might fail to do what Rita asks of her. She cannot stop. Rita has asked this of her, and Rita believes she has it in her. Tissaia can give her this. 

The pleasure she ekes out of her body is weak, worn thin. She relies on glancing touches, indirect pressure, and eventually something begins to build in her, something impossible—not the fierce pleasure of immediate stimulation but something that seems to coalesce out of the air itself, like a rainstorm, like power for a spell. Tissaia is conjuring this for Rita. All of this for her, because of her—her tenderness and her patience and her faith in Tissaia. For that, Tissaia would give her anything she wanted, no matter the cost.

Rita moans then, and when Tissaia looks over at her, the expression on her face is one of wonder and adoration. Tissaia knows Rita can feel what she is feeling, and it’s that thought, the knowledge that Rita can see her so completely and still take pleasure in what she finds, that finally tips Tissaia over the edge. The orgasm itself is next to nothing, a dim tremor after all the work she’s done to get there, but the satisfaction she feels is immense, suffusing her tired limbs in a golden glow. 

Utterly spent, Tissaia drops heavily onto the wet sheets. For a long time, all she can do is breathe and shake and breathe some more.

When the mattress dips beside her, she tries to turn into the warmth of Rita’s body, but finds she is too weak. Rita raises her up slightly with an arm behind her shoulders, and puts a cool cup of water to her lips, which Tissaia swallows down greedily. When Tissaia has drunk her fill, Rita lowers her back onto the pillows and lies down half on top of her to kiss her. After so long spent trembling, Rita’s body on top of her is a welcome weight, despite her overheated skin and the silk of Rita’s her dress sticking to Tissaia’s sweat-drenched limbs. It feels like some part of her that had threatened to shake loose is slowly being drawn back into her body. 

“You did so well for me, darling,” Rita whispers. 

If she were not so exhausted, Tissaia might feel embarrassed by these words. For now, she is nothing but tired. Later, perhaps, Tissaia should tell Rita all the things she can never bring herself to say aloud, but surely Rita knows already. For now, she can only lie under Rita’s body and let herself be held still, Rita’s heartbeat a steady rhythm against her chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to anyone who has sent me a prompt! If you would like to suggest more Witcher femslash for me, please, please, please come do so on [tumblr](https://likecastle.tumblr.com/)!


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